


Those Marks You Carry So Proudly

by AetherSeer



Series: Locker Room Rewards [2]
Category: Hockey RPF
Genre: Bathing/Washing, Coming Untouched, Dom/sub Undertones, M/M, Rimming, Semi-Public Sex, Washington Capitals
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-23
Updated: 2017-04-23
Packaged: 2018-10-22 23:24:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,235
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10707315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AetherSeer/pseuds/AetherSeer
Summary: Nicklas answers the same questions over and over again, media blandness in place. After so many years in the spotlight, it’s as much a routine as the way he tapes his stick.He hears Tom’s embarrassed laugh over the reporters’ questions, though, and looks over.“[My back] is sore,” Tom says. “It actually hit me right beside my pad. Right in the tailbone, so I got a pretty funny mark there that the boys are enjoying and yeah, it’s all good.”





	Those Marks You Carry So Proudly

**Author's Note:**

> This is set directly after the game against the Philadelphia Flyers on March 4. If there are inconsistencies, please accept my apologies.
> 
> The described blocked shot can be seen here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=O5zkXQwbI9M

Nicklas sees the moment of impact from the bench. He sees Tom read Del Zotto’s play and make the decision in a split-second, big body folding down in front of Holts. He winces along with the rest of the guys on the bench when the puck ricochets and Tom stretches full-length on the ice before sliding his knees under him. For a moment, it looks like Tom is praying.

He stifles a laugh when Holts pats Tom’s ass with his stick. Tom skates over to the bench under his own power, if gingerly, and the game continues.

 

Nicklas finds Tom during intermission and asks quietly how he’s faring. Tom shifts around in his stall, clearly trying (and failing) to keep his not inconsiderable weight off his injured backside.

“I can play,” Tom says quickly.

Nicklas keeps himself from rolling his eyes, but just barely. “That’s not what I asked.”

Tom flushes. He doesn’t meet Nicklas’ eyes. “It’s sore, and it’ll probably bruise, but nothing’s broken. Just sore.”

“Maybe block the next shot with somewhere that’s padded.”

Tom’s flush deepens attractively. Nicklas puts that to the back of his mind and forces his attention to Trotz at the center of the locker room. There’s hockey to play, and Flyers to send back to Philadelphia with their tails between their legs.

 

Nicklas puts away the overtime goal with satisfaction and smiles as his teammates mob him. It’s always nice to win at home, here in a sea of red and white. Alex plows into him, crushing him against the boards as usual.

They file into the locker room, the joy of a win simmering around them. Nicklas takes a seat, stripping off the sweat-soaked jersey and pads in relief. He’s unwrapping his shin tape when he notices Tom wincing his way through removing his own equipment.

Nicklas finishes undressing, but doesn’t head to the showers right away. He waits. His patience is rewarded as Tom’s bruised and battered skin comes into view. Once the gear is off, the kid’s entire body is a patchwork of old and new bruises. And the most prominent of tonight’s bruises is an odd-shaped mark just above Tom’s tailbone, barely visible when he stands upright. But when he bends forward, the bruising stands out in stark relief against pale skin.

Nicklas crosses the room and claps a proprietary hand on Tom’s shoulder. Tom tenses, but relaxes after seeing who’s at his back. Nicklas steers him to the showers, hand dropping down to rest possessively at the small of Tom’s back, uncaring of who else might see. The Caps are team, and any trainers or coaches have seen much worse.

In the showers, Nicklas turns the water to hot, and puts Tom directly beneath the faucet. “Hair first, then body. Be thorough.”

Tom’s face is flushed again, although this time could be either from embarrassment or the water’s heat. He obeys, though, lathering up that dark hair and scrubbing out sweat and dirt. Nicklas turns to his own shower, scrubbing down quickly and efficiently.

He finishes his own shower in time to see Tom reaching around to get his back with another wince. Nicklas tucks his wet hair behind his ears and steps in close again. He reaches around and gets a palmful of soap. He spreads the soap over Tom’s skin, starting at broad shoulders and working his way down to the top of his ass. Nicklas is gentle around the visible bruising, but Tom still shivers when he passes over a particularly sensitive spot.

“Can you handle your legs and genitals?”

Tom blinks down at him in guarded surprise. “I didn’t get a point.”

Oh, this boy. “You saved one instead.”

Blue eyes widen and Tom swallows hard. “Oh. Y-Yeah, I can handle the rest. How—?”

“Be thorough, Willy. Very thorough.”

 

Nicklas snags a towel to wrap around his waist and another to scrub at his hair. He walks back into the locker room, which thankfully is less cluttered with discarded gear and devoid of press. Alex bumps his shoulder companionably when Nicklas sits in his stall to pull on shorts and sweats. “Willy getting special treatment? Don’t want to spoil the kids, now, Nicky.”

“Block a shot with your ass and you’ll get special treatment, too.”

Alex’s mouth stretches into a grin and he barks out a laugh. “Orly and Nisky already leave. Celebrate points in a bed. Also avoid press. Reporters want to talk to Willy about save. Trotz say he need to see trainer, so we have time.”

Nicklas prefers to ignore just how much his coach may or may not know about team dynamics, but he does appreciate Trotz holding off the media. “That’s good. Help me move the bench?”

 

Between the two of them, they get the wide padded bench away from its place against the wall, setting it more toward the middle of the room. T.J. bounds into the room, wet hair dripping everywhere. “Ooh, who’s on the bench?”

Alex’s gap-toothed grin is more endearing than Nicklas would care to admit. “Willy getting thank-you for saving our ass, with his ass.”

T.J.’s grin grows. He settles into his stall, clearly awaiting the upcoming show. He’s not the only one. Alex’s comment drew the attention of Kuzy and Justin. Kuzy looks torn, clearly wanting to stick around but Nicklas remembers him talking about a late-night date with his wife after the game. Justin trails around the room, but eventually settles next to T.J., content to wait for the moment.

Kuzy has a quick conversation with Alex in Russian before gathering his bag and heading out. Nicklas looks at Alex. “He promise his wife, so not this time.”

Ah. It’s not like Kuzy’s the only one heading out, either. There’s a handful of guys settling in to watch, but more of them are taking the opportunity to avoid the media and heading home to soft beds.

 

The anticipation is growing, and Tom stops dead when he emerges from the showers to a room half-full of teammates watching him. Nicklas waits for him to catch up and then steps up to him. Tom has a few inches (and more than a few pounds) on him, but Nicklas knows how to handle promising young players.

He strips Tom’s towel away and spins him around, pressing lightly on his shoulder to keep him half-bent over. The entire sequence takes only a moment, and the result displays that darkening bruise on Tom’s tailbone. Someone whistles, and Nicklas watches red creep down Tom’s shoulders.

Nicklas walks Tom over to the bench and presses him down, letting Tom shift into a comfortable position but keeping his knees under him and spread wide. Justin tosses over a bottle of lube; it smacks into Nicklas’ hand with a noise that makes Tom jump beneath Nicklas’ steady palm. He strokes down that purple-green-yellow-fishbelly pale skin. Tom shivers again and visibly calms.

Nicklas pops open the lube and pours some over his fingers. He makes eye contact with Braden as he trails slick fingers over that darkening puck bruise and into the crease of Tom’s ass. Tom sucks in a breath and widens his stance, letting Nicklas drag fingertips over the sensitive furl of his hole. “You’re doing so well, Willy,” he murmurs.

Tom lets out a soft sigh and his shoulders come down to rest against the smooth padding of the bench when Nicklas teases the tip of one finger at the edge of his hole. “Who says thank you for saving that goal?”

Nicklas makes a show of running his gaze over the guys in the room, but Braden’s already up and out of his seat. Braden straddles the end of the bench and scoots in closer, beard rasping against Tom’s cheeks when he leans in. He places a kiss over the bruise and laves down Tom’s crack, following the trail of lube (flavored, even, thanks, Justin) Nicklas had left.

When he licks directly over that soft, pink skin, Tom shudders and lets out a noise that could be construed as a whine. Nicklas shushes him, running his hands over Tom’s back and keeping a watch on the rest of the team as Braden gets to work.

 

Nicklas keeps a hand on Tom, but his attention skips over the entire room. T.J. is leaning against his stall divider, one hand under his waistband and his eyes focused on Braden pressing hot, sucking kisses between Tom’s cheeks. Shattenkirk’s ignoring the hard-on pressing against his sweats. Alex, well, Alex has no shame and spreads his thighs for anyone to watch.

Nicklas watches Justin, who’s sitting with his back to the wall. He raises an eyebrow.

Nicklas can hear the wet sounds of Braden’s mouth, and Tom’s shuddering breaths. He can feel the way Tom’s beginning to shift beneath his hand. Nicklas presses harder right between Tom’s shoulderblades. “Let Holts take care of you, Willy.”

Tom outright whines at that, and Nicklas sighs. He beckons Justin over. “Keep his mouth occupied, hm?”

Justin grins at him before kneeling in front of Tom and cupping Tom’s face in his hands. “Shh, shh, Willy. Nicky’s got you.”

Tom whimpers, blue eyes glazed over. Justin pecks him on the cheek before taking his mouth in a messy kiss. Nicklas watches the way their mouths meet for a moment before refocusing. He trails his hand down Tom’s back to the divots at the base of his spine. Braden glances up. Nicklas holds out the lube, uncapped, and wiggles it.

Braden pulls back and wipes his mouth. Tom strains back toward him, but Justin distracts him for the little time it takes for Braden to coat his fingers in slick and dive back in. Nicklas can tell when Braden adds a finger to his rimming, because Tom’s spine curves toward the bench, ass pushing back toward Braden.

Justin turns his attention back to Tom’s mouth until Nicklas pulls him back. He recognizes the signs for Tom getting close, and the team should have the fun of hearing Tom fall apart. Without Justin’s mouth catching his sounds, Tom’s much louder. He moans outright when Braden introduces a second finger, and then can’t seem to stop.

Beneath him, Tom's own cock sways. A few drops of precum bead at the tip. Nicklas is patient. He can wait. He catches Tom’s wrist when he tries to reach down and pins it next to his head. “No. Let Holts make you come.”

Braden listens and doubles down on his efforts, working a third and then a fourth finger into Tom’s now reddened and puffy hole. He presses in and down, and grinds. Tom stiffens and jerks, and then comes with a loud shout, completely untouched.

There’s a bout of swearing around the room, and guys speed up their own sessions. Nicklas pets Tom’s hair, watching his face carefully. There’s a few tears, but otherwise Tom looks to be fine.

Braden backs away, and Nicklas almost extends an offer, but Justin beats him to it, leading Braden back to the showers for “a quick rinse.”

T.J. offers Nicklas a wet towel, taking one for himself and avoiding a comestain on his sweats by mere inches. “Maybe I’ll block more shots with my ass if that’s the reward,” he jokes.

“Maybe you’ll start blocking shots,” Nicklas returns. T.J. just grins at him while Nicklas turns Tom over to his back and starts wiping him down.

Tom has one arm thrown over his face, but he moves it to glance at Nicklas. “Backy, d’you—?”

Nicklas bats Tom’s other hand away. “I’m fine. I, unlike some, can wait.”

Nicklas chances a look at Alex, shameless Alex, who lifts his hands as if to prove his innocence. His still hard cock proves otherwise, but Alex just ignores it now that the show is over. He’ll wait for Nicklas to be done with media and then drive them home.

Nicklas returns to cleaning Tom up, carefully wiping away the lube and spit to avoid more irritation. He presses Tom down and rummages through the locker for a minute, emerging with a soothing cream, which he then applies to the skin irritated by Braden’s beard. “If you re-apply it before you sleep, you should be fine by morning,” he says.

Tom nods and his flush begins to recede. He sits up with a wince—not, Nicklas notices, hurting any worse than he had been before—and then stands. He makes his way to his stall and starts pulling on clothes.

Nicklas and Alex move the bench back before packing their own bags. The press are waiting, and none of them can exactly be called patient. However, Nicklas has and will continue to make them wait for the sake of his team. Alex’s team. _Their_ team.

 

Nicklas answers the same questions over and over again, media blandness in place. After so many years in the spotlight, it’s as much a routine as the way he tapes his stick.

He hears Tom’s embarrassed laugh over the reporters’ questions, though, and looks over.

“[My back] is sore,” Tom says. “It actually hit me right beside my pad. Right in the tailbone, so I got a pretty funny mark there that the boys are enjoying and yeah, it’s all good.”

Of course the boys are enjoying it. They know what that mark, and all the bruises Tom wears so proudly, means.

**Author's Note:**

> I found a prompt at the sinbin, so I filled it.  
>   
> Let me know if there are any typos or other issues so I can fix them.


End file.
